


Last Fling Before The Ring

by Familiae



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Reality TV, The Bachelor AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25753159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Summary: “Just swallow your pride and go on The Bachelor,” Jo told him.Markus stared at him for a long beat. Then, “Do they give contestants a laptop or something?”
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

Rigging was so damn hard to twist together.

It didn’t help that his hands were trembling. Probably trembling. Maybe not. No, had to be. It was downright _impossible_ to twist the threads around one another, like trying to push a thread through a needle with no eye.

But then, finally— _finally_ —the threads twisted around each other, and the _USS Voyager_ had another rung on its rope ladder.

Buoyant, overjoyed, he grabbed the next thread and began repeating his ministra—

The door opened. Although, _opened_ was such a gentle word. It implied that all one heard was the click of the handle sliding the lock out of place. It did not imply a great, echoing _thud._

Markus started, jerking violently, his hand catching on his half-finished rigging and—

There was a _thud._

There was a _crash_.

There was a _bang._

Markus stared down at the floor at his fallen model, his eyes raking across it, inspecting for damage. That was the _crash_.

The person who had entered the room—with the aforementioned _thud_ of the door smashing off the wall—ran through the room with such exuberant excitement that he smashed into the table Markus had been working at. The force of the crash jostled the box that Markus had been using to store the yet-unused parts of his model ship and he watched as it tumbled end-over-end.

The grand finale: the _bang_ as it crashed down, spilling its contents everywhere.

Markus looked at the remnants of his several hours’ work. He looked at the intruder, who looked incredibly excited and not at all apologetic, or even like he understood that he had done anything that required an apology.

It was then that Markus realized the intruder was speaking.

“Jo,” Markus said, mildly irritated, holding up a hand as he got to his feet. “Hang on.”

“Oh?” the intruder, Jo, said, peering over Markus’ work station. “Did I do that?”

“It’s fine,” Markus muttered, picking through several pieces and trying to decide if any had been damaged.

“It was a crash landing,” Jo commented, and then snorted with a small fit of giggles. “Get it? _Crash landing_?”

Markus supposed he did, though he wasn’t sure the pun was fitting.

“This isn’t a model of that flying ship, though,” Markus explained, dropping various bits that he had deemed whole. He wasn’t actually sure if they were since they were too small to properly assess for damage, but he figured he’d cross that bridge when he tried to piece them together and they no longer fit due to chips or broken edges.

“This isn’t the one from that star show?” Jo queried, looking disappointed.

Markus held up what he had assembled so far of the ship.

Jo looked at it petulantly, like it had personally offended him with its existence. Which it had, in a way, Markus supposed.

“What is _that_?” Jo asked, his disgust apparent in his tone.

“A model ship,” Markus told him, still irritated. “I just told you.”

“It’s so… boring. You really put that together?” Jo moved around the table to peer at the half-built ship critically. More accurately, it was moreso quarter-built now, as several pieces had fallen off.

And the rigging had come undone.

“You broke it,” Markus accused, poking at the threads that were swaying uselessly and loosely.

Jo made a dismissive hand gesture, the conversation about model ships apparently too long for his short attention span. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just a boat.”

Markus was offended. “It’s a _ship_.”

“It’s boring,” Jo pointed out.

“A _battle_ ship.”

“Still boring.”

“A battle ship for _war_.”

And still, Jo looked very unimpressed. “You don’t even know anything about ships, so why the interest in putting one together?”

Markus made an insulted, scoffing noise. “There are _cannon holes_ ,” he reminded Jo, gesturing to the tiny gaps in the woodwork of the small ship.

Jo squinted at him, dubiously. “Pretty sure those have a name.”

Markus looked down at the ship again. “Yeah, _cannon holes_.”

“They’re called gunports,” Jo said, matter-of-fact.

Markus’ gaze snapped back up to his friend. “How… how do you know that?”

Jo winked and pocketed his phone.

Markus gave him a sour look and opened his mouth to protest and demand an answer, but Jo laid a hand over Markus’ mouth, effectively silencing him.

“Anyway, I told you, didn’t I?” Jo asked, his eyes alight with mischief. Markus didn’t like that expression. Too often it led to foul play and shenanigans that Markus had been forcefully dragged through.

“Told me what?” he asked, but with Jo’s hand over his mouth, it was too muffled to make out the words.

“Oh, hush,” Jo told him kindly. “And tell me what you think.”

“About _what_?” Markus tried to demand, but again his words came out too muffled to be understood.

“Well?” Jo pressed.

Markus glared at him. His eyes flicked down to glare at Jo’s hand, making him go cross-eyed for a second. Then, he glared up at Jo again.

“Oh, right. When I take my hand away, promise you’ll stay quiet?”

Jo seemed to take Markus’ glare as a yes and he removed his hand. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Jo made an impatient noise. “Well? What do you think?”

“I’m sorry,” Markus retorted. “I thought I was supposed to stay quiet?”

“Oh, I meant about the”—he gestured at the ship, still held in Markus’ hand—“but obviously, I want to hear your thoughts on it!”

“Thoughts on _what_?” Markus cried, thoroughly exasperated now.

“Adam!”

Markus stared quizzically at Jo, trying to recall their last several conversations. Had they discussed an Adam? Markus didn’t think he knew an Adam. He didn’t think Jo knew an Adam, either. Or, actually, it was possible that this “Adam” was a thing and not a person. Had Jo purchased another wig recently and named it? Markus wouldn’t put that past Jo.

“Well?” Jo prompted, making an impatient hand gesture.

“What the hell is an Adam?” Markus asked wearily, wary of the answer.

“Did you— Were you not— But I—” Jo made several useless gestures, as though he were trying to mime out his thoughts. Then he let out a frustrated growl. “Don’t you listen to me?”

“Too often for my own good!” Markus shot back. He settled himself back at his table and gently laid the ship down.

Jo shoved the ship to the side, despite Markus’ cry of protest, and laid his phone down in front of Markus.

“What are you—”

“Just watch!” Jo snapped, pressing play on some sort of video.

Markus watched. He felt deeply disturbed as he did so, but he did watch.

The video opened with a close in of two doors opening. They were fancy, and white gloved hands had reached for the handles. The view changed to one of—a restaurant? Markus could only assume that was what it was. There was a long table with old fashioned candelabras, silverware, and empty wine glasses.

_Adam_ , then, was a restaurant? Markus had never taken Jo as a food connoisseur, but he supposed there were worse things.

The view panned across the faces of several well put together women. Hair perfectly curled and pinned in elegant twists, faces done up in stylish and elaborate makeup. They looked like the rich and wealthy about to enjoy a meal that was well beyond what Markus’ financial budget could allow.

A waiter entered the room, and the women—geez, there had to be at least twenty of them, all perfectly coiffed and pressed—turned their heads in unison to watch the waiter hungrily. They looked almost terrifying, like they were so ravenous as to be beyond their senses and were about to maul the man in style befitting flesh-hungry zombies.

But the waiter did not stop next to any one of the women. Instead, he pulled out a chair—the quick camera angle showed Markus it was the only one that hadn’t been occupied at the large table—and used it as a step to haul himself onto the table.

Just what sort of restaurant was this? Markus felt very certain that was a health code violation. The man could’ve worn towels drenched in bleach on his feet and it would have still been unhygienic to walk across a table the way this guy was—except now he was _crawling_.

What was this commercial even advertising? Bizarre behavior in the rich? Was this how everyone ate in fancy restaurants? Waiters crawling across the table to serve food?

The waiter-not-waiter finally settled himself down on his rear, legs kicked out in front of him. This was shown again and again from several angles. There was even a close up of his face and Markus could see the smirk that twisted his lips, and how he used a finger to quickly flick a stray strand of blond hair from his face as he looked up into one of the various cameras.

The man threw his head back, his posture the epitome of relaxed and unconcerned—one leg out straight in front of him, the other bent so he could rest an arm on it. The camera moved further away, allowing Markus to see how the gaggle of women were staring at the man, transfixed, as though they had never seen anything like him before, either.

Markus had to admit they were on to something. He’d be looking at his waiter much the same way if he ever saw something like that.

The view closed in to show the waiter pulling a cloth out of his pocket, whipping it away from him with a flourish. He offered it to—Markus supposed it was the closest woman, though the camera angle did not show who was receiving the napkin. Instead, the camera angle made it appear as though he were offering it to the viewer with a devilish smile.

The waiter said, “Are you ready for the first course?”

It slammed into Markus hard and _fast_ that this was some sort of sexual commercial and he gagged, just as hard and fast, an instinctual retching at such a terrible, corny, degrading display.

The camera angle changed again so that Markus could see the entire table, and how the man was sitting in the very center of it. The view jumped, like it had glitched, and for just a second, the waiter was no longer dressed in a black tail coat and trousers, but wore an elaborate cape, a scepter in his hand, a crown upon his head. The ladies were now all dressed in vintage style clothing, petticoats, small fascinator headpieces pinned in their hair, lacy gloves upon their arms and hands.

A court of ladies worshipping their prince.

“ _The Bachelor_ ,” a calm, bodiless voice said serenely, like this display was utterly commonplace. “Featuring Hunter—applications now being accepted.”

Markus was still trying to calm his gag reflex and remind his stomach he hadn’t eaten lunch that day, so it was useless to vomit—there was nothing to come up.

“That was terrible,” Markus finally managed to croak.

“That wasn’t the right one,” Jo said, looking confused. “That’s the ad for the other bachelor. There’s two this time. They’re going to—oh, it’s loading the next one. I think this is the one I wanted to show you.”

“Please don’t make—”

“Shush,” Jo commanded, going so far as to make sure the volume on his phone was as high as it could go.

Markus looked back down at the phone, his expression sour.

He was not going to like this.

The video opened by flashing through a series of images, all featuring a sandy haired guy. First, he was in a suit, lacing a tie around his neck. Next, he was in shorts and a loose tee shirt, bouncing a soccer ball from knee to knee. Then, he was in a fancy suit again, running his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out. And then, he was in a tee shirt and shorts again, running through some sort of area with trees, his skin moist with sweat. Finally, the sandy haired guy was shown in his suit again. He was apparently done getting ready, as he did a dramatic twirl to show the audience his finished look. Once he was done, he smiled in a way that Markus thought was meant to be charming.

“If you’re looking for an all-American boy,” that same calm, bodiless voice intoned. Instead of speaking only for a dramatic conclusion, this time the voice narrated as more shots of the sandy haired guy played.

The bodiless voice continued, “Are you ever in for a treat with this bachelor.”

The scene changed to the sandy-haired guy, sitting in a room, a game controller in his hands, clicking away at its buttons.

“Staying in bed all day is my way of saving money,” a bodiless voice said, a male voice this time. Markus figured it belonged to the sandy haired guy. “Or just staying home, in general. I can play video games all day, sometimes. Or watch movies. I’m also told I make an outstanding cuddler.”

The scene changed to the sandy haired guy lounging across a sofa, a bowl of popcorn and a drink nearby. He laughed at something—probably a TV that was out of view of the audience—and tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“But don’t be fooled by that,” the female bodiless voice said. “Because this bachelor is more than a couch potato.”

“I like to exercise. I prefer to go running, or surfing, or anything that involves being outside,” the male bodiless voice said.

More short scenes of the sandy haired guy doing things outdoors. Kicking a soccer ball. Swimming in some large body of water. Walking across an expanse of sand, shirtless and in swim trunks, a surfboard under one arm.

“Thanks!” the sandy hair guy called to the person recording him. “I woke up like this!”

As if to emphasize just what he meant, so there could be no confusion on the matter, Adam shifted his surf board so he could flex his arms, allowing the muscles across his arms to ripple, and the ones on his exposed stomach to tighten.

Markus made a noise of disgust.

“More than just a pretty face, this bachelor is everyone’s dream boyfriend,” the bodiless female voice assured the audience.

Markus severely doubted that. Especially as he watched several more clips of a shirtless guy saunter around for the camera.

“Quick to laugh at everything you say and encourage you whenever possible, and perhaps also to show off those perfect teeth,” the female voice said.

The camera was suddenly very, very close to a grinning mouth, teeth exposed.

This wasn’t real. There was no way. Markus refused to believe this was serious—were they advertising a show or a specific dentist?

“Even men as straight as his teeth find him gorgeous,” the female voice continued as the camera slowly panned out from the sandy haired man’s face, showing his once-again shirtless chest. “If you’re looking for a loyal partner, look no further than Adam.”

Markus shot Jo a disbelieving look. _This_ was Adam? _This_ was what Jo thought would somehow interest Markus? He’d never been so disappointed in his best friend in his entire life. Markus had thought that even Jo had standards.

“It’s not easy being me,” Adam said from the video on the phone, “which is why I need you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Markus hissed derisively under his breath, at the same time the bodiless voice said:

“Now accepting applications.”

Markus made a rude noise of distaste.

“And? So?” Jo prompted as soon as the video stopped playing.

“And so what?” Markus demanded, still feeling more than a little revolted.

“You don’t think he’s cute?”

Markus shot Jo a look that suggested he was concerned for his friend’s mental health.

“I’m serious!” Jo defended.

Markus’ look grew in alarmed intensity.

“Well, I am!” Jo snapped, face flushing in exasperated irritation.

Markus wondered if a good friend would report to some sort of hospital when they suspected a dear friend was suffering from a mental break down.

“You’re crazy,” Markus said, pushing Jo’s phone away.

“No, _you’re_ crazy!” Jo shot back, putting his hands on his hips. “Adam is great! Did you see those teeth?”

“Oh,” Markus said, “trust me, I can’t unsee them.”

Jo beamed. “They’re great, right?”

Markus had nothing to say on that matter. Somehow, Jo took that as an acquiesce to the question.

“And his muscles?” Jo added, eyebrows waggling.

“Can’t unsee those either,” Markus muttered.

Jo’s eyebrows waggled faster.

“Stop that,” Markus instructed, disturbed.

“Stop what?” Jo asked, his eyebrows almost a blur. “Stop fawning over a hot man when I’m a straight guy?”

Markus snorted.

“What?” Jo’s eyebrows were still doing _things_.

“You’re as straight as a slinky,” Markus pointed out.

“I’m as straight as a slinky for _Adam_ ,” Jo corrected, changing things up and lifting one eyebrow at a time in some sort of odd dance. “You gotta admit, the guy’s got a lot going for him. Excellent boyfriend material, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Markus agreed drily, turning his attention back to his model ship.

“Knew you’d see things my way,” Jo said cheerfully, his eyebrows still doing strange things.

“Will you stop that?”

Somehow, Jo winked while maintaining his eyebrow dance.

Markus made a disturbed face and Jo laughed as he dashed out of the room in the same whirlwind fashion that he had entered.

Markus resumed poking at his rigging, the threads still broken and useless. He could tie them together, but he wasn’t sure it would have the same majestic appearance. Somehow, a battle ship with a jerry-rigged rope ladder didn’t seem like it would inspire the same amount of terror and intimidation in enemy ships as a fresh, sleek, well put together ship.

He sighed. Like it actually mattered. He was building a model ship, not piecing together some kind of craft of war.

Except it did matter.

And all over _Adam_. Some useless guy who was going to get paid to work his way through a harem on a tv show. Somehow, Jo _liked_ that. Somehow, Jo would love to—

The idea hit him suddenly.

Markus had never been one for devious schemes, but his lips were tilted in crooked smile as he left the confines of his room and toed down the hall to Jo’s bedroom. A quick peek through the cracked door told him Jo was somewhere else in the apartment, and Markus slipped in.

The laptop was sitting, open, on Jo’s desk. And really, it was too easy.

Markus crept over to it. And then, he paused.

Alright, this _should_ have been easy.

The laptop was open, but the screen was dark. Was it turned off?

He examined the keyboard for a power button, but found that he did not see a power button. The symbol should have been on _one_ of the keys.

Markus made a face and scanned his selection. All he saw was a standard keyboard, with letters, numbers, and f keys. There was shift, backspace, tab, caps lock, and all the other options he usually saw on a keyboard.

With the exception of a power key.

What the hell.

Markus stared harder at the laptop, wondering if he could use sheer force of will to make the power button glow or tap dance or do _something_ to stand out.

_Alienware_ was printed at the bottom of the screen. Markus agreed fervently that the laptop was made by some sort of aliens. How the hell else was he supposed to turn this thing on? With the power of his mind?

Or… Markus hoped not. He knew Bluetooth connections were getting fancy, but he was _pretty sure_ that there was yet to be technology controlled by thoughts via Bluetooth. Jo had shown him some videos on his phone of TED talks on potential prototype technology that could do just that, though, but those had just been prototypes, right?

Markus sighed. There was a little decorative alien on the laptop, above the keyboard. It looked like the stereotypical alien head—big, round skull with no hair and dramatically almond-shaped eyes.

“What do I do?” he asked the tiny alien head.

It did not answer.

His plan was up in smoke before he had even really begun.

With a frustrated noise, Markus pecked at several keys on the keyboard.

Miraculously, the laptop’s screen blinked to life.

He blinked it at. It was bright in the otherwise dim room. Had the laptop only been in sleep mode, then?

He was too relieved to question it. He was pretty sure this laptop didn’t have a power button, so he supposed it made sense that Jo only kept it in sleep mode. Markus knew that if it were his laptop—not that Markus ever planned on owning a laptop—he would be sure to get one that had a power button. Not some faulty, alien-made piece of junk that could only ever be left in sleep mode.

It was also a good thing that Jo had apparently set his laptop to either not require a password, or to not require a password after exiting sleep mode.

_Alienware_ was now illuminated in orange lights. The alien head was glowing blue.

It was pretty, Markus supposed, but useless.

“Thanks for the help,” he muttered sarcastically to the blue-glowing alien head.

Hastily, Markus opened the internet, went to the search browser, and carefully finger-pecked in his query.

He had to admit, this laptop was a little hard to use. Not because of its lack of a power button—though that, certainly, would make any laptop difficult to use—but because the keyboard was glowing. It was blue, and then it was orange. The color rippled in streams across the LED lights under the keys. First it was blue, and then orange flooded across the keyboard, only to be replaced by blue again.

It was fascinating, and distracting. It was like watching a color-changing lava lamp.

Markus had to focus on the task at hand.

It was surprisingly easy to find the application.

Figures it was equally hard to parse out what the application wanted, or how to submit said information.

“Are you...?” the first question asked, with dropdown options for “nominating yourself” or “nominating someone else.”

Markus felt a bead of sweat build on his temple. These people would try to communicate with him if he nominated someone else, right?

He clicked the “nominating yourself” option.

There was a short period where the application seemed like it would be full of easy questions with easy answer. First name, last name, date of birth, height.

Then, there was a textbox labelled “weight.”

He took a moment to wonder if the show was so shallow as to ignore applicants over a certain weight before he took his best guess and typed it in.

“Do you have any children?”  
“Have you been married before?”

Markus again wondered if children or previous marriages were something that were not allowed in these harems. No strings-attached sex only, please.

With a disgusted noise, he selected the “no” option for both. Things were easy again for a while. He typed in a phone number, email, and home address information.

Then, he came to optional portions of the application. He had the option to submit a Facebook or Instagram handle.

Those were not terms Markus had heard before. He had heard of Facebook and Instagram, of course—Jo was obsessed with them, constantly waving around his phone so Markus could watch a video or admire a photo. But _handle_?

For a moment, he had a mental image of someone who owned multiple laptops. This someone placed a laptop on a desk in a small closet upon a small table. Each of these laptops were programmed to only open a certain social media site. Should the someone want to access Facebook, they would go to the closet with the Facebook-designated laptop. Perhaps the handle on the closet even said “Facebook.” Or maybe, in this modern and artsy world, that someone had decorated the handle so that it was instantly recognizable as a certain social media. Perhaps a modern rendition of their username, or profile picture.

Markus did not think this was actually what the application was asking for. Or, he fervently hoped it wasn’t. He was not about to paint the handles on closet doors just to snap a picture and submit it.

And since those were optional pieces of the application, he skipped them, no door handle painting involved.

The last part was to upload an image of the applicant. Markus gave a long-suffering sigh and clicked “choose file.” He hoped that there was something on here he could use to—

There was only one image currently on the laptop.

It was Jo, in hotpants, go-go boots, and a form-fitting shirt, posing with his fingers curled around his hair, showing off a wig when it was assumedly new. There was glitter falling down around him, and Markus did not know how Jo managed to find somewhere that rained glitter, but was not surprised that Jo had managed it.

And since it was the only option, Markus clicked it and hit “submit” on the application.


	2. Chapter 2

Jo was in a great mood.

He didn’t fail his multivariable Calculus test, as he had thought he had. He had actually made top marks, and the professor had pulled him aside after class to compliment him for being the best in the class. Considering how he had doubted the usefulness of anything multivariable, regardless of the branch of mathematics, he had been left in a wonderful mood.

He was skipping to his part time job—the one he got specifically to chat with Markus, as Markus had already worked there when Jo applied. Markus never seemed to appreciate these little, thoughtful things Jo did for Markus.

“Oh, God. What are you doing here?” had been the first thing Markus had asked him on his first day, and Jo had only been momentarily crestfallen before remembering that Markus was too stinking pessimistic to be taken seriously.

And so, he continued to work alongside his pessimistic friend, armed with nothing but a smile and some (okay, admittedly bad) jokes and puns to try to cheer his gloomy friend up.

His friend needed some cheering up.

Seriously.

And with his good mood and smile, Jo was practically skipping to work.

As such, he nearly missed the insistent vibrating in his pocket. But he managed to pick up before the call went to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Samantha Mumford. Am I speaking to Markus Moreno?”

“Well, yes, it is!” Jo enthused.

“Hello, Markus,” Samantha greeted warmly. “You can call me Sam. I work on the recruiting team of The Bachelor. I wanted to tell you that we have reviewed your application, and we are pleased to inform you that we would like to proceed with further screenings. Are you still interested in being a candidate?”

“You can bet your tooshie, I am!” Jo enthused again.

“Excellent. We’ll email you your next set of instructions and some more paperwork for you to fill out to the email provided. As a final applicant for the show, we’re going to ask that you complete a medical examination and have your doctor fax over the medical sheet we will email to you. Our fax information can be found on the medical sheet. Once that’s completed, we will contact you about travel and hotel reservations. Does that sound alright to you?”

“Right as rain!” Jo enthused, yet again.

“Excellent. We hope to hear again from you soon. Have a good day, Markus.”

“You too, Sam!”

There was a click, and the call disconnected.

Jo was in a seriously good mood. He wasn’t sure that Markus would understand just why Jo had—

His phone was vibrating again.

Jo pulled it out, accepted the call, and greeted the person (so cheerfully that he barely recognized his own voice), “Hello?”

“Hello. My name is Samantha Mumford. Is this Jonah Atten?”

“Why, yes, it is!” Jo enthused, feeling over the moon. He was so elated that the name the woman gave sounded familiar. He was on cloud nine. He could not wait to tell Markus—

But wait. He had to finish this phone call and run (read: skip) to work first.

“Well, Mr. Atten, you can call me Sam. I work with the recruiting team on The Bachelor. I wanted to tell you that we have reviewed your application for the show, and we are pleased to inform you that we would like to proceed with further screenings. Are you still interested in being a candidate?”

Jo wasn’t sure what was better or higher than cloud nine. Cloud ten? That was where he was right now.

“You can bet your tooshie, I am!” Jo nearly hollered into his phone, a smile nearly splitting his face in two.

“Excellent. I’m so happy to hear you’re still interested,” Sam said. “We’ll email you your next set of instructions and some more paperwork for you to fill out to the email provided. As a final applicant for the show, we’re going to ask that you complete a medical examination and have

your doctor fax over the medical sheet we will email to you. Our fax information can be found on the medical sheet. Once that’s completed, we will contact you about travel and hotel reservations. Does that sound alright to you?”

“Right as rain!” Jo assured her.

“Wonderful,” Sam said. “We hope to hear from you again soon. Have a good day, Jonah.”

“You do the same, Sam!”

The line disconnected and Jo could practically feel his body vibrating with energy. He pocketed his phone again, ready to dash off at a sprint that would leave even a gold-medalist in the Olympics feeling particularly jealous. But before he could even start, his phone buzzed again.

Humming a happy tune to himself, Jo pulled his phone out and answered. “Hello?”

“Hello. My name is Samantha Mumford. Is this Felix Mao?”

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” Jo told her apologetically.

He heard some clicking noises, like perhaps Sam was double checking something in her system. Finally, she said, “Your phone number is 211-420-0666?”

“Sixty-nine,” Jo corrected.

There was a pause.

“Um,” Sam fumbled, obviously trying to fish for a reply.

“It’s sixty-nine,” Jo clarified. “As in, what I’ll be doing later.”

“I’m sorry. I...” Sam drifted off, managed to wrangle her professional composure, and asked, “What do you mean?”

“My phone number,” Jo said cheerily. “The rest is good, but it ends with sixty-nine.”

“Oh!” the woman squeaked. “I must have bumped the wrong number when I was dialing. I apologize for the confusion. Have a good day!”

“You too, Sam!” Jo told her, and hung up.

He once more placed his phone in his pocket and dashed to work.

Markus was going to be so excited. 


	3. Chapter 3

Adam tilted his head this way and that, staring at his reflection in the full body mirror in his private room. He had to admit, he felt a bit like a doll with the various layers of foundation and blush the helpful attendants had lathered onto his face. One of them—Bertha, her name was and what a lovely name that was—had informed him that the cosmetics were necessary, as the cameras would bleach his “lovely skin of all its color and make him look like a mongrel zombie.”

“It’d be such a shame,” Bertha had sighed. “Almost as much a shame as it is you have to cover up your lovely skin. Your face is so smooth! Do you use any products?”

Adam had laughed and explained no, he was just born this way. She had expressed surprise and recommended some of her favorite products if he ever wanted to try a facial moisturizer.

“Not that you need it,” she had added with a wink. “But you never know when your skin may need an extra pick-me-up.”

His stomach had growled at one point and the kindly ladies had finished powdering his nose to dash off. Now, they returned, politely knocking on his door and coming in, arms loaded with gifts.

“We didn’t know what you might like,” Bertha admitted.

“We got you a bit of everything,” the other lovely attendant, Gretel, added.

“This is too much,” Adam proclaimed, looking between the two. Bertha held two cup holders, each tray filled to capacity with hot beverages. Gretel held two large boxes, one stacked upon the other.

“We didn’t know what you might like,” Bertha repeated sheepishly, listing off her offerings. One of the drink holders several flavors of coffee—caramel, toffee, and mocha—as well as a cup of unflavored black with several sugar and cream packets to go with it. The other tray held much the same, except various flavors of tea—sugar cookie, peach, and raspberry—as well as a simple green.

“And I have pastries and donuts!” Gretel added, rattling off her various assortments of danishes, croissants, bagels, and donuts.

“This is too much,” Adam repeated weakly, guilty that they had spent a small fortune to wrestle together a late breakfast for him.

Bertha shook her head and tried to shrug in a dismissive gesture. She nearly dropped her various drinks and Adam rushed forth to help her place them on a table.

“It wasn’t a problem,” she told him firmly. “A sweet thing like you could use some doting.”

Adam took the boxes from Gretel and likewise placed them on the table.

“Well,” he said helplessly. “I couldn’t possibly finish all this by myself. Why don’t you two lovely ladies join me?”

They melted and agreed.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” he asked them, gesturing at the drinks.

“Oh, no—” Bertha started.

“We couldn’t possibly—” Gretel tried.

“We got those for you,” they both said at the same time. They glanced at one another, chuckled.

“You pick first,” Bertha insisted. “We’re fine with what you don’t want.”

Adam plucked the black coffee from the lot and added a few packets of the cream and sugar. “I’ve always preferred simple things,” he admitted.

Which was true, he supposed, but he also thought that Bertha and Gretel seemed the type to prefer the sweeter options. He was right. Bertha chose the caramel iced latte and sipped happily as Gretel selected the peach tea and did likewise.

He chattered with them happily as they nibbled at their late breakfast. Gretel, it turned out, had an excellent sense of humor and had Adam chuckling more than once with her stories and impressions of some of her coworkers and their ridiculous escapades. Bertha struck Adam as the protective type, sweet to a fault until someone threatened or mocked someone she loved. Then, she had a righteous streak a mile wide, more than willing to call down her wrathful fury on the person who was foolish enough to hurt her loved ones.

They were such pleasant company, but all too-soon there was another knock at the door and a man with a headset and a clipboard poked his head in to say, “Five-minute warning. Time to head out to the stage.”

Adam sighed. “I don’t suppose we could continue this after the interview?”

Both women beamed at him.

“I wish I had auditioned for this season of the show,” Bertha sighed.

“I know,” Gretel agreed. “Honestly, I don’t like the idea behind the show. I kinda think it’s gross, ya know? All those people stripping off clothes and using their looks and body to get the attention of the bachelor. But something tells me that doesn’t impress you,” she added, glancing at Adam. “You’re one in a billion.”

“One in a lifetime,” Bertha corrected, wrinkling her nose. “Have you met the other bachelor yet?”

Bertha and Gretel grimaced in unison. Adam glanced between them. “Something wrong with him?”

“He’s a bit…” Gretel drifted off, trying to find the right word.

“Arrogant,” Bertha chimed in loudly. Gretel nodded in fervent agreement.

Adam considered that, tried to think of what to ask to understand their insult. But before he could utter a word, Gretel put her pastry down and jumped to her feet.

“Enough of that!” she declared. “We prattle on any longer and you’ll be late, and it’ll be our fault you get in trouble.”

Adam felt a twist of guilt. “I don’t mean to run out on you like this.”

Gretel smiled softly at him. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

“You do them very well,” Adam assured them both. “I couldn’t have asked for better attendants.”

“Get going,” Bertha said, not unkindly.

Adam must’ve left his confidence behind him in the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, his stomach twisted into knots. The coffee, it seemed, was a bad idea. It felt like hot acid splashing at his insides. The pain au chocolat didn’t help matters anyway.

_You’re excited for this_ , he reminded himself yet again as he followed the signs on the walls that pointed him towards the stage.

And he was. He really was. Perhaps it was because he was excited that his nerves so often rattled when he thought about the fact that he was going to have his own season on _The Bachelor_ —he was going to be the cause of a heartache on the part of twenty-nine people. The only silver lining to possibly creating such upset was the idea that he might walk away holding the hand of the person he wanted to marry, the person he wanted to grow old with, the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It was a silly romantic notion, but Adam had always been the hopeless romantic.

But still—twenty-nine people he had to let down. Twenty-nine people he had to look in the face and tell them “you’re not who I’m looking for.”

Maybe he was going to puke up that coffee and pastry, after all.

“There you are!” a now-harried looking young man with a headset and clipboard said as he turned a corner—the same young man who had given him his five-minute warning a few moments ago. “You were due on stage thirty seconds ago—let’s go, let’s go! They’re waiting for you!”

No time to puke, then. He was nudged non-too-gently onto a stage, the young man with the clipboard expertly remaining in the shadows and off camera as Adam worked hard not to stumble as the cameras made an obvious sudden arc in his direction. He lifted a hand and waved at the crowd of mostly women before the stage, smiling pleasantly. A few ladies tried to shout something to him, but it was impossible to hear over the applause, and most women wound up yelling over one another, their words a muddle of sound and excited syllables.

He took a seat in the empty armchair to the left of a lovely brunette woman. On her other side sat a blond man with honey-gold eyes. Adam recognized him as Hunter Henderson, the other bachelor with his own season of the show that was to run in tandem with Adam’s.

_Arrogant_ , Bertha had said.

And yet when he offered his hand to Hunter, Hunter was quick to accept with a strong shake, a friendly smile tugging at his lips. Adam was not one to call anyone a liar. It was easy to perceive and even misperceive things. He had a feeling that whatever Hunter had done to rile Bertha and Gretel, it had been nothing more than a misunderstanding.

Adam took his seat and the brunette lady—the host of the interview—looked between the two men with a beaming smile. “It’s so good to see you two getting along! You know, there was a lot of speculation that you two may have winded up as unfriendly competitors, given that your shows are going to air at the same time, and you’ll be competing for viewers.”

“That sounds like nonsense to me,” Hunter told her. “Whoever the viewers decide to watch is their business, and I respect their choice. At the end of the day, they’ll tune into the show they think is the most interesting, and there isn’t anything we can do or say to change that fact.”

Adam had to admit, he felt similarly. “And,” he added when Hunter finished, “it’s unprofessional and childish to toss hateful comments at someone just because of something as trivial as a TV show meant for public entertainment.”

The interviewer looked between the two men with a touched smile. “Well, there you have it, folks! I’m sitting live with Adam Antonsson and Hunter Henderson! I’m your host, Alex Bell!”

There was a round of cheers, applause, and whistles. Hunter had the sort of smile a wolf may give a sheep before devouring it. Adam’s was more subdued, polite, the smile of a shy school boy.

“I have a few questions to ask each of you. Our audience at home wants to get to know both of you better—”

Alex was interrupted from someone from the audience shrieking, “Adam, I love you!” and a chorus of “yes!” from other audience members.

The host laughed. “Looks like they’re eager to get to know you,” she said to Adam.

“I’m sure there are just as many who are excited to hear about Hunter,” he assured her with a smile.

“Ohhhh,” Alex cooed, winking at the audience. “This one _is_ a keeper. Cute and polite.”

“Well, I know I want to hear about Hunter,” Adam pressed with another smile. “I think he should answer the first question.”

“As the gentleman insists.” Alex shifted to look at Hunter. “How would you describe yourself in one word?”

Hunter’s golden eyebrows drew together in contemplation. “I don’t suppose I could request a phrase instead of a word.”

Alex laughed. “I think I’ll allow it.”

Hunter’s smile shifted into a smirk. “Too hot to handle.”

There were a few whistles from the crowd. Alex used her pile of index cards to fan herself theatrically. “I’ll say! And you, Adam, same question: how would you describe yourself in one word?”

Adam considered that. He wasn’t very good at summing himself up. There had only ever been one thing people used to describe him…

“May I also use a phrase?” he asked.

The host smiled at him. “Oh, why not? It’s only fair.”

He laughed, a little embarrassed to admit, “I would probably say I’m a happy pill.”

“As in, you take happy pills or you are the happy pill?” Alex asked.

“I suppose both?” he admitted, shrugging sheepishly. “I’m the positive sort of person, and a lot of people have told me I’m like a happy pill.”

Alex’s eyes gleamed. “Seems accurate.” She turned back towards the audience, “Now, we know what _The Bachelor_ is all about. A single man tries to find that lucky someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, and we learn all about the contestants and what they offer our bachelors. But I’m curious to know what these handsome men have to offer. We all want a working partner who is willing to help out with finances. I’d like to know: what do each of you do for a living, and what would you say the hardest part of your job is?”

Her eyes fell on Adam. “And since we heard from Hunter first with our last question, this time we’ll hear from you first, if you please.”

“I was actually a professional athlete for a while,” Adam admitted. “I received a minor ankle injury and had to take some time off and thought it might be time to figure out my romantic life. A romantic partner takes a lot of time and energy, and I wanted to be able to dedicate myself fully to my relationship before I open the next chapter of my life. I have a business major, though, and I do enjoy using social media as an influencer in my free time.”

Alex clucked sympathetically and Adam continued, “The hardest part of my job, though? Probably the hours. It doesn’t get to me too badly, though, because whenever I’m overworked and tired, I just start laughing. A lot of people think I’m crazy for it, but I just get the giggles. I can’t even look anyone in the eye without laughing.” Just thinking about it, Adam felt himself chuckle. “I guess it’s better than getting grumpy, though!”

“A happy pill, indeed,” Alex commented before turning the question on Hunter.

Hunter cleared his throat, “Well, like Adam, I’m sort of taking a bit of a break. I just finished getting a history degree and thought that before I start a career, I wanted to take some time to find the perfect partner so I can start a new chapter together with them.”

Alex examined her notes. “We spoke before this interview, and you admitted to me that you were quite the heavy partier in college.”

“Oh, definitely,” Hunter said with a sheepish laugh. “There were some nights I drank so much, I didn’t remember taking tests in class the next day. Always managed to get good scores on them, though.”  
  
“I’m assuming you’re ready to put those days behind you, if you’re thinking about finding someone to start a family with?” Alex quirked an eyebrow in playful challenge.

Hunter sobered. “Yeah, I am. Those days were fun, but I consider it to be part of my college experience. I’m definitely ready to settle down and find that special somebody.”

Alex moved through the questions as quickly as possible, trying to pose the most commonly asked questions that had been collected from various social medias. The crowd offered a round of hoots and laughter when Alex asked Adam, “If you could do or be anything, what would you do?”

“Become a human sponge!” he enthusiastically squawked. “I’d love to absorb every bit of knowledge possible. Everyone has something to offer to someone else. We never really stop learning!”

Hunter earned several blushes—and even Alex fanned herself dramatically—when she asked him what his greatest feature or quality was, and he had to work to keep his wording appropriate for the PG-13 rating.

Finally, she wrapped up with the question everybody was wondering: “This is another question for both of you. Describe your ideal partner.”

She paused dramatically to allow them time to collect their thoughts before turning to Adam to answer first.

“I’ve always been a hard worker,” Adam told her earnestly, “and I’d want to see that in my partner. I want someone who not only appreciates how much effort I put into things, but also reciprocates. I want someone who’s ready to fight for what they want in life, who isn’t a pushover, but who knows it’s also okay to hit the brakes and take the time to offer someone kindness.”

“Someone who’s driven but kind,” Alex summarized, “but who doesn’t let people push them around. When you find that person, let me know.” She winked theatrically before turning to Hunter.

“I’ve been thinking about that for a while,” Hunter admitted. “I want someone who I can say is my equal in every way. I want to meet someone who admires me for who I am and what I do, but who I can admire in turn. Not necessarily because they’re clever, but because there’s something about them that draws me to them—something unique about them, I guess you could say.”

“Oh,” Alex joked, “so you aren’t only after someone for their looks?”

Hunter’s smile was roguish. “I had hoped that was a given.”

The crowd, which seemed to have warmed up to Hunter’s odd sense of humor, chuckled at him.

“And there you have it, folks!” Alex declared, holding her hands up to gesture at Adam and Hunter, listing off the dates and times their seasons were to begin. “Our two bachelors. Which one has caught your interest?”

One of the cameramen gestured that the live recording had come to an end, and Adam turned towards Alex. “Thank you for having me. It was a pleasure being here with you.”

“Aw,” she joked, “the cameras aren’t rolling anymore. You don’t have to offer me flattery like that.”

Adam’s smile took on a quizzical edge. “I wouldn’t lie about that. It’s always a treat to talk to lovely and intelligent women like you.”

She laughed, even as her cheeks flushed. “I hope you find someone who appreciates you on the show. I really mean that.”

“We both deserve that,” Hunter chimed in with a polite smile at Adam. “I wish you luck. Hopefully, the casting team did us justice in the candidates they picked.” He glanced at Alex. “If they’re anything like you, I’m sure I’ll be blown away.”

“Gentlemen,” she said with a choked noise, “you’re going to make me combust from all these compliments!”

“Alex,” a crewman called, “next guest on in three.”

“I think that’s his way of saying we’re overstaying our welcome without actually yelling at us,” Adam joked to Hunter.

Hunter gave him a weak smile. Alex said, “Well, hopefully I’ll see you again after your season of the show comes to an end, and neither of you will be alone.”

“We’ll always have each other,” Adam told Hunter mock-conspiratorially with a wink.

Hunter laughed like he wasn’t sure what the joke was, and Adam supposed he should have worded his jest better. As they walked off the stage in opposite directions, Adam was hit with a thought that niggled at him, burrowing deeper into his brain until he couldn’t ignore it.

Bertha and Gretel had wandered away from his room, but he managed to track them down and insist they return to their breakfast with him. They were nice enough to offer to clean his face of its layers of foundation and rouge before sitting down with him. As they continued to munch on pastries and sip at lukewarm drinks, he finally couldn’t ignore his idea anymore.

“Do you know where Hunter’s room is?” he asked the two.

They traded looks.

“Well, yes,” Bertha admitted. “We did try to do his makeup for the set earlier.”

Adam caught the weird wording. “Try?”

Gretel’s nose crinkled. “He said we were unqualified or something like that.”

Adam paused mid-chew. “Something like that?”

He considered the gentleman he had met on stage. Hunter had seemed confident, but not rude. Adam didn’t think there was anything wrong with confidence. It was true that over-confidence could lead to disaster. It was better to always look at things with a lens of humility, but he hadn’t gotten any sort of sinister or arrogant vibes from the other contestant.

“Why do you ask, anyway?” Bertha said warily.

“I was hoping to stay in touch with him.”

Both women looked as though they were trying to merge their eyebrows with their hairlines.

“I thought we might make good friends,” he continued.

Both ladies’ eyebrows seemed to disappear into their hair.

“I’m not—”

“I can’t say that’s—”

They paused and looked at one another. It was an uncomfortable, tense look.

“I can tell you how to get to his room,” Bertha finally admitted with a frown. “But I really think you should reconsider this whole ‘friend’ thing.”

Adam’s tense expression turned relieved. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t sure what Hunter had done to so greatly offend the two women, but he decided he’d rather judge Hunter’s character himself. Sometimes, those who made the worst first impression turned out to be the very type of person who proved invaluable, the sort you wanted to keep at your side, always.


	4. Chapter 4

Wolves were creatures of instinct and power. They didn’t apologize when they dominated. They didn’t show remorse when they cornered prey. They didn’t overthink. They analyzed, found the most effective plan of attack, and charged in.  
  
Hunter sometimes thought he had a wolf living inside of him. He felt an odd kinship to the ideal of the wolf. Many called him impulsive, reacting too quickly without thinking through the consequences of his words and actions. But impulses were just another type of instinct. There were times when Hunter felt like he could close his eyes and let those impulses guide him to success, to victory.  
  
Breathing slow and even, Hunter let the world fall away. There was nothing but him and the sound of the engine—purring, purring, building to a growl, a _roar_ of power and vibration. His hands thrummed with it. He didn’t even glace to see if the traffic lights were green or red. He didn’t care. The gears shifted seamlessly, the car’s speed hitting 50, 60, 70—  
  
The police were on to him. No problem. Hunter rolled his neck and let the car gain real speed—80 mph, 90, 100—  
  
There were more police now. Two cars coming in from his right, one on his left, and one behind him. Trying to box him in? Good luck.  
  
The roads were a bit too narrow to allow for a vehicle of his speed, but Hunter pressed on harder, the numbers climbing higher and higher—110, 115, 120, 125...  
  
A pedestrian let out a strangled sound—a cry cutting off abruptly as the car jerked, the man’s body acting as a speed bump. Hunter cursed, his speed hiccupping—down to 110 again—and the police used that moment of hesitation to close in on him. But no, Hunter wouldn’t let them catch him, wouldn’t let them trap him. He could build more speed, put more distance between them—120 again, 125. The number slowly ticked higher and higher. At 130 now... 135... 140... and...  
  
The turn took him by surprise. He tried to adjust, thought maybe he could try a drift, but he had too much speed and his tires skidded across the pavement like skates on ice. He couldn’t get the car under control and it’s rear bumper slammed into a pole, pieces of it cracking off and leaving a metallic bread crumb trail behind him as he tried to hit the gas again, tried to—  
  
A police car slammed into his right side, just as ill-prepared for the turn as he was. Both he and the police careened into a building. Another copper—also moving too fast to control his speed—smashed into him from the other side as he skidded, effectively T-boning him. The car was pinned in place, forced to a stop, belching dark, noxious fumes as it breathed its last, the engine choking out to an eerie silence. The police wasted no time. Hunter barely had a second to register the death of his beautiful Dominator before they were on him, tearing open his door, yanking him out of the car. Handcuffs came out, but one overexcited police officer pulled out his gun, fired several rounds. They hit him, and his body twitched before he hit the ground and—  
  
 _ **wasted**  
  
_ “Dammit!” Hunter growled at the message, tossing his controller at the floor.  
  
So, perhaps sometimes instincts guided him well, and sometimes it smashed him into a pole. Literally. And perhaps Hunter should learn to look further down his path than what was only immediately in front of him and figure out how to strategize to tackle it. There was probably a real-world lesson in there somewhere. Or a metaphor…  
  
A rapping at his door interrupted his ruminations. Hunter debated not answering it. It could be more staff trying to insist they do his makeup or pre-season rabid fans trying to sneak selfies or autographs.  
  
Whoever it was, they knocked again, a polite, subdued _rap-rap-rap_.  
  
The staff who were supposed to be his personal entourage were too pushy and demanding to knock like that and Hunter highly doubted a rabid fan could ever sound so timid. And so, he opened the door.  
  
Teeth, large and gleaming, greeted him. Hunter had to look away, lest his eyes start to water. Those teeth were domestic terrorists.  
  
“Hey!” Adam said brightly. “Is now a good time?”  
  
Was now a good time? A good time for what? Hunter wasn’t sure anytime was ever a good time for whatever plans belonged to a man with terroristic teeth.  
  
Hunter stepped away him his door, the better to shield his eyes. Adam took this as some sort of invitation and stepped closer. Interesting logic, but Hunter was too distracted with swiping at his eyes to utter a protest.  
  
“Are you alright?” Adam asked with the sort of concern Hunter expected to hear only from his mother.  
  
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, of course, fine. Allergies or something. You wanted to talk to me about something?”  
  
“Oh, yes.” Despite the fact that it had been Adam who had sought Hunter out, he seemed to have forgotten his train of thought. He paused a moment to consider. A smile pulled his lips up; exposed his unnaturally white, uncomfortably large teeth. There was a tooth sparkle. A large, glittery tooth sparkle.  
  
Hunter was very offended by that tooth sparkle. His eyes watered again. There was something innately threatening about that tooth sparkle. It felt less like a friendly smile from Adam and more like a predator showing off his large, sharpened teeth in a show of intimidation and enjoying the way they glistened in the light.  
  
“I’m very glad—” Adam began, but stopped. The room dimmed as Adam’s smile fell, his teeth hidden behind his lips. Concern knitted his brow. It was another expression Hunter only ever thought to see directed at him on his mother’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”  
  
“Oh, yes, yes,” Hunter said quickly, using his thumbs to vigorously scrub his eyes. “Allergies. Just allergies. Bad time for them.” He blindly found his way back to the couch and slumped onto it. “Please, sit,” he offered resignedly. It seemed Adam was here to stay for a while.  
  
Adam took a seat and folded his hands, leaning forward and—sparkle sparkle—there was that tooth sparkle again.  
  
“I thought we could be friends,” Adam said. He paused, considered, amended, “Rather, I _want_ us to be friends.”  
  
Oh, really?  
  
Hunter judged this man. Judged him, and found him rather wanting—from his sandy blond hair to his well-maintained Burberry canvas sneakers. Hunter hadn’t even known Burberry _made_ shoes. He wouldn’t have even guessed these were Burberry were it not for the large logo branded onto the side of the sneakers in tacky colored letters.  
  
Hunter disliked Adam immensely. They could never be friends.  
  
“I really admire you,” Adam confessed. “It takes true courage to show your true heart on camera like you just did, especially live. There are no edits, no time to take anything back. It was extremely brave of you to expose yourself like that. I’m honestly curious about you, and that’s why I really want to be able to call you my friend.”  
  
Hunter tamped down the suspicious scowl that tried to grab onto his lips and tug them down, down, down. Why would his rival—so to speak—want anything to do with him?  
  
“You’re the sort of person I aspire to be, I suppose is another way to put it,” Adam continued, fidgeting with his fingers a little. Hunter would have normally found the display of nerves to be chastise-worthy—they were about to be the leading stars of their own show, for Christ’s sake—but something softened in him.  
  
Oh, really? Adam really felt that way? It almost seemed like he looked up to Hunter like a role model or idol and Hunter couldn’t help the small gleam of boastful pride that swelled in his chest.  
  
“And I was hoping you might be interested in keeping in touch,” Adam continued. “It’d be good to have someone to turn to, someone who understands the situation I’m in, someone with sound advice who’s not afraid to be honest when need be. I feel like there might be times when I need that little voice of reason, and I think that voice might be you, with your honesty and courage.”  
  
Oh, _really_? Hunter tried to keep his chest from puffing up like a preening bird, but the temptation was hard to resist.  
  
“You’re quite right,” Hunter agreed easily, pleasantly, happily. Ego stroked and pride inflated, there likely wasn’t a request in the world he would have denied at the moment. “I’d be quite pleased to trade numbers with you and call you my friend.”  
  
Adam beamed. Tooth sparkle activated.  
  
Hunter smiled back, eyes stinging. His returning grin suggested that he was trying to swallow a boulder while holding a lemon under his tongue. Enter stage left streaming eyes.  
  
“You, er, uhm, like video games?” Hunter asked quickly, looking away—for any distraction from the blinding sight. Christ, did the man bleach his teeth three times a day instead of brushing them? Did he keep some sort of UV ray generator in his gums that his teeth were so reflective?  
  
Adam frowned—tooth sparkle de-fucking-activated, thank fuck—and glanced between the controller still laying on the ground from Hunter’s earlier fit of rage and the TV, which still displayed that pathetic message: _wasted_.  
  
“Well, sometimes,” Adam said hesitantly. “Not sure I’ve ever played this game much, though. Doubt I’d be any good.”  
  
Hunter gestured vaguely at the TV, blinking his eyes in a manner that he hoped would help restore his vision. “Well, you wanna play with me a bit?”  
  
Adam frowned, looking contemplative. Hunter felt obliged to add, a little awkwardly, “Uh, dude, I’m not exactly asking you to marry me. Just play a game of grand auto theft.”  
  
Adam laughed, an easy and rich sound that Hunter almost envied. Adam was the sort of guy who had a pleasant laugh—the sort of laugh that made you want to chuckle along, even if you didn’t understand the punchline of the joke. It was a good thing, Hunter mused, that he and Adam had their own separate seasons, and weren’t going to compete for the same contestants, like how some of those sick European rip-off series did things.  
  
“I was just thinking I may not be good competition since I don’t play that often, but...”  
  
“As a binding of our friendship pact,” Hunter promised, “I’ll teach you how to kick ass and steal some prime automotive.”  
  
“I’ll just have to trust you,” Adam laughed.  
  
Tooth sparkle...  
  
Hunter was seriously going to go blind by the end of this day.


End file.
